When in Paris
by Confused Pumpkin
Summary: Paris – the city of lovers. Even lovers with guilty consciences, lovers with secrets, lovers with lies. Even lovers who, in all respects, aren't supposed to be together. But be careful. The past can be a dangerous creature. Scorpia AU, John/Yassen


**A/N:** So I was incredibly bored and aching to write something for AR, but my "To Sleep" train has hit a crossroads and it isn't going anywhere for now – repairs. This was originally supposed to be a part of chapter 6, but a reader asked me not to make it slash and since the one small slashy bit that I already wrote isn't terribly important, I decided to omit it and make it a one-shot.

Okay and so sue me, I've finally jumped ship.

**Title:** When in Paris (Do as the Parisians Do)

**Summary:** Paris – the city of lovers. Even lovers with guilty consciences, lovers with secrets, lovers with lies. Even lovers who, in all respects, aren't supposed to be together. But be careful. The past can be a dangerous creature. Scorpia AU

**Rating:** T

**Characters/Pairing(s):** Yassen/John, Alex

**Warning(s):** Profanity. SLASH, SLASH, if you DON'T like slash, don't read. No underage though. Oh, and there really _is_ no plot, just a lot of emotional angst.

**Words:** ~2800

Disclaimer: Horowitz, I think if you read this, you would faint. Does that mean I can keep them?

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><p><em><em>Cum Romanum venio, ieiuno Sabbato; cum hic sum, non ieiuno:<br>sic etiam tu, ad quam forte__ecclesiam veneris, eius morem serva, si cuiquam non vis esse scandalum nec quemquam tibi._ _

__When I go to Rome, I fast on Saturday, but here [Milan], I do not.  
>You also must follow the custom of whatever church you attend, if you do not want to give or receive scandal.<em> _

__St. Augustine Letters: Volume I, circa 390 ___AD_

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><p><em>Paris, France<em>

Slender arms circled a bare torso. Warm breath ghosted along a relaxed neck, dappled pale silver in the cold November moonlight streaming in from the window. Two blond heads nestled together, taking comfort in their closeness. The younger of the two sighed happily, reminiscing on what had just transpired. The older was strangely quiet, his chest rising and falling gently as he breathed steadily.

"Helen…" he whispered almost absently.

The younger didn't move. "You love her." It wasn't a question. His voice was diffused with understanding. He wasn't bitter that he couldn't have his lover; rather, he took what was offered to him and was content with that.

The elder nodded.

"What she doesn't know can't hurt her," the younger blond whispered, leaning even closer to press his face against the hardened flesh of his partner's throat. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

The elder traced a light pattern on his twenty-year-old lover's bare back. His fingers bumped against the occasional raised scar inlaid on the otherwise smooth, knotted muscle. "I suppose you're right. It doesn't stop me from feeling rotten about this, though."

"Don't." The command was surprisingly emotional.

It was the older man's turn to sigh. "Yassen…"

"Hmmm?" The younger raised his head to stare at his mentor. Blue eyes clashed with brown. The older frowned.

"We shouldn't be doing this."

Yassen flippantly replied, "We just did, John." And you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it, he didn't add. But he wanted to.

"No more, okay? This is the last time." Weariness settled on John's starkly handsome features. He had just hit thirty this year, but he looked to be in his mid-twenties. His eyes were tired – tired of the killing, tired of being a murderer, tired of holding this dirty betrayal close to him without confiding in anyone. He wanted to tell his wife. He really did. But he was so afraid.

Yassen didn't reply for a long time. Finally, he leaned close and whispered, "You said that last time."

John's arms were suddenly around him, and their legs tangled under the comfortable duvet, knees and thighs and calves brushing against their counterparts. "I know. I'm a liar. I can't help it. Comes with the job."

His lover chuckled softly. Long pale fingers forked through the messy, military-style hair, the strands golden-brown and darker than the younger man's. Yassen dared to press a kiss to his lover's mouth, his tongue gently lavishing attention on the older man's bottom lip. "There will be a next time," he promised. "There always is."

John struggled to break away. "No there won't. I mean it this time, Yassen. Helen doesn't deserve this."

Yassen leaned back languidly, sliding his arms from around John. His movements were those of someone who knew what he wanted, and knew that he would get it. "You keep saying that. But you can't stop yourself." He pressed his naked hips against John's to remind the older man of _why_ he couldn't stop himself. John bit back a groan of equal parts pleasure and exasperation.

"You can't stop yourself either."

Yassen shrugged, unbothered by this fact. "I'm young. A few months ago, I was still a teenager. I'm _supposed_ to be hormonal and out of control."

John laughed quietly, but there was a bitter undertone to it. "We're not doing this again, Yassen. We can't." He paused long enough to lay a tender kiss to his student's frozen jaw. "I mean it this time. Please. We need to stop."

"What's going on, John?"

"Nothing. I just – I feel like I can't do this anymore. I can't choose."

Yassen shook his head. "There is no choice. You have Helen. You can have me too."

"No, Yassen. Helen's my wife. We're bound to each other legally, and I'm happy with that. But what _we_ have – you and me – it's not normal, nor is it healthy for either of us. I don't want you to be my little whore." Yassen winced at the coarse term. "I want you to be my student. Nothing more. Nothing else."

"There's something going on. What aren't you telling me?" Yassen's eyes were wide, his pale lashes glowing silver in the half-darkness, the same colour as his wheat-blond hair.

John hesitated. The younger man could see him running through ideas in his mind before he blurted out, "We're having a baby. Helen and me."

"…How long?"

"She's seven months pregnant. It's a boy."

"Congratulations." The voice was curiously flat.

John raised his hand to caress his lover's face and neck, his fingers stroking idly along the scar on Yassen's throat. "I'm sorry. I just don't think I can handle it all at once. Especially not with the new assignment we're getting when we return to Italy. We're going to Malta. Top secret." He saw the look on his student's face. "It'll be fun," he offered weakly. "We just can't do…this anymore."

Yassen leaned back, away from John's touch. "I know. I understand." John had been expecting a son when their…affair started. Yassen wondered if this hurt more than it had when John revealed that he was married. Probably, judging by the fact that his chest was doing some crazy aching now.

He slipped out of the bed, feeling John's eyes on him all the time as he picked up the various articles of clothing scattered around the room. "I need some fresh air," he muttered, trying to hide the desperation in his voice and avoiding John's eyes for all he was worth. John nodded.

Outside the hotel, the autumn air was blissfully cool and helped Yassen clear his head somewhat. He leaned against the brick building, keeping the door in his sights. God, he needed a distraction, badly.

With no certain destination in mind, he set off to explore the city. Somehow, he found himself in a mildly empty club, ordering a drink from a seedy-looking bartender. He spent the hour nursing his drink and staring blankly ahead, trying to forget.

A woman walked by. One look at her told him all he needed to know. She was a harlot, interested in only money and pleasure. Well, damn his stupid unhealthy attachment to a certain fair-haired Brit. Yassen stood up, his eyes trained on the woman, and she turned to look at him. She read the desire in his eyes, the need for an oblivion that she could provide. She winked at him and beckoned suggestively, slowly backing toward the stairs.

He almost hesitated. Briefly, he thought of the person waiting for him on the other side of Paris before he dispelled the thought. Rider could wait. He followed the woman up the stairs to a private room where guests routinely fucked themselves senseless. She didn't ask his name and he didn't bother asking hers. This was not about emotion or even attraction. This was about distraction and money and an outlet for pent-up lust.

When it was done, Yassen quietly pulled out a needle and injected a murky pale green liquid into the prostitute. The substance that he injected was made from the powdered roots of the plant _Atropa belladonna_, known more commonly as deadly nightshade. Though he had never told her a single scrap of information regarding his background, he thought it best to severe any and all connections. Granted, it would have been easier to put a solid .45 calibre bullet between her eyes, but the job was messy enough without the added blood.

He gathered his clothes from the floor and slipped into them, somehow feeler lighter than before. Without a backward glance at the body that was now surely just a body, he left.

The hotel was quiet when he entered. The receptionist barely looked at him, and as he helped himself to an elevator, he saw the woman close her eyes briefly in boredom. Security wasn't tight then. The metal doors slid open once it reached the twelfth floor, and Yassen stepped out. He reached into his back pants pocket, absently extracted his key, and opened the door to his room.

His partner was still awake. The blond looked at him, brown eyes unclouded. "Gregorovich?"

Yassen felt the heaviness settle in his stomach again. John had never called him by his last name; the man had been informality through and through. "Hello Alex." He was aware that he sounded worn out. There went any chances of sneaking into the shower unseen.

Alex propped himself up on his elbows. "Are you okay?" Christ, the voice was almost the same – perhaps the tiniest bit higher, less developed, but every bit the same. Fifteen years. He had lost John fifteen years ago. And every time he looked at the man's son, it was like losing him all over again.

"Yes. I'm fine. Go back to sleep." He was amazed his voice could be so calm. He had not lost control for a long time now. Somehow, being around Alex brought back vivid memories of John, so real that he could have sworn they were taking place in the present. A desolate wave of nostalgia washed over him.

Instead of obeying, Alex rolled out of bed and padded over to him, still smaller and shorter than John had been. But his young, handsome face was the spitting image of his father's, from the serious brown eyes to the high cheekbones to the narrow mouth. "You sure? Where were you?"

"Out." Yassen closed his eyes. He wondered briefly if Alex could smell the dirtiness and sweat on him. "Go to sleep now, Alex. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

Apparently, he should have given Alex's sense of smell the benefit of the doubt. The boy wrinkled his nose and leaned forward so his face was only a couple inches from Yassen's crumpled shirt. He inhaled slowly before backing away. "You've been going off having sex on a mission?" The boy's words were incredulous; his tone bordered scathing.

For a moment Yassen wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. John had always been the one keen to "do it" while on a mission – at least, when he wanted to do it at all. But John wasn't here now, and Alex was right. He would never be able to live with himself if his trysts led to an unforgivable lapse in security.

"Well?" Alex pursed his lips, looking uncannily like his father.

"Alright, yes, I'm been naughty. It's just something I have to do every once in a while. You, however, should be in bed."

Alex's eyebrows shot up. "I never would've taken you for the one-night stand type," he muttered. "You always seem to have infallible control."

"I'm a man, Alex," Yassen reminded him. "No man can be completely infallible. I'm sure your uncle Ian wasn't any less innocent than I am."

Alex's eyes widened as he thought about it. A strange expression twisted across his face. "I don't – I don't want to think about that," he spluttered.

Yassen chuckled, though he felt a pang go through him at the boy's furiously red cheeks. Alex was still so naïve about anything of a sexual nature. It was a sharp contrast against John's maturity. But then again, when they'd been lovers, John hadn't been fourteen. "Don't think about it," he replied.

"Too late for that," Alex retorted, and turning away, flung himself back onto the bed. "I'm going to have nightmares tonight. 'Night, Gregorovich."

A quiet pause. "Goodnight, Alex."

After his shower, he lay in bed brooding as the clock ticked toward morning, each second bringing him farther from his past, farther from Hunter. He tried to sleep, to no avail. The warm October air was suffocating in France, a cruel reminder of his last time with his lover. It was in the same city, at almost the same time of the year, though the weather had been cooler fifteen years ago.

Yassen turned onto his side, staring blankly out the window. The sky was a dark velvet blue, still a long way from dawn. The lights outside twinkled brightly and he wondered if there was ever a time when the city was completely dark. No, he supposed not. Paris was, after all, the romantic city of the world. Lovers would be outside in all hours of the night, bound for dark shadows, all the better for their secret hot passions. Sex in Paris. It was any couple's dream. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the thought.

With a sigh, he dragged himself out of the bed and crawled into his partner's. He wasn't being a creep, he reminded himself. He was just lonely and needed some comfort.

Alex instantly rolled over and curled up against him, instinctively seeking Yassen's heat. The boy tucked his head against his neck. His soft blond lashes fluttered as he dreamed. He muttered something in his sleep, some gibberish in a garbled mixture of French and Spanish about someone named Jack. Yassen fought to control the smile of amusement and pain that threatened to sneak across his face. John had been particularly fond of mumbling in Russian. It seemed his son had inherited his multilingual sleep-talking habits.

Yassen decided to take a risk. He lifted his hand and laid it gently on Alex's shoulder. It was an innocent touch, comforting, not in the least provocative. But he was happy with it. For now, for tonight at least, he had John back.

It was only a while later that he thought to wonder how Alex knew what sex smelled like.

-AR-

Daylight filtered in through the windows, cruelly bright and intrusive on the insides of Alex's eyes. He saw red for a moment before cracking open his lids and nearly yelling.

His right hand, placed conveniently on top of the pillow, dove under the cloth and closed around the hilt of his commando knife before the sight registered in his half-dazed mind.

Gregorovich, haloed in the buttery yellow sunlight, was perched on the side of the bed. He was so close that their sides were almost touching. The older man was distributing his weight perfectly, balancing delicately on the sheets without waking Alex up or pushing down the mattress. He was staring at Alex.

Alex stared back. By God, couldn't the man make a noise when he moved? It was unnerving waking up to find himself unwillingly thrust into a brutal staring contest.

"Wha?" he croaked. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he tried again. "What?"

"You fidget in your sleep. Bad habit."

"You were watching me sleep?"

Gregorovich stood up, and Alex wasn't surprised when the bed springs didn't even creak from the movement. He checked his watch. "It's seven o'clock," the Russian said, ignoring the boy's question. "I let you sleep in."

"This is sleeping in?" Alex threw aside his sheets. Underneath the cotton duvet, he was already clothed in a pair of dark jeans, though they were unbuttoned. He swung his legs out of bed and hastily threw on a shirt, his fingers catching on the material and nearly ripping a button off. He turned away as he fastened his trousers.

His mentor was already dressed. In fact, he looked sharp enough to cut steel. How could he be so _awake_ in the morning, and at this time? Alex was aware of how valuable being alert was, but didn't the Russian ever experience a moment of relaxation? He supposed not. For a man like Yassen Gregorovich, work _was_ a vacation. And you were paid for it, no less.

"Ready?"

Alex reached under his pillow and pulled out his knife, tucking it safely into his shoe. "Yeah. Where are we going today? The Messenger's house is still empty, isn't it?"

"Yes. I checked this morning." Alex raised an eyebrow. "While you were sleeping," the man explained. "Not all of us have the luxury of sleeping in late."

The teenager glanced at his partner's bed. It hardly looked slept in. "Did you sleep at all last night? Your bed is practically still made."

Gregorovich looked somewhat affronted, thought Alex wasn't sure why. "Yes."

"For four hours?"

"The night is too valuable to waste."

"_Obviously_." He didn't say anything more, though his smart mouth was itching to mention the midnight tryst. It wasn't safe to talk back to a near-sociopath, and his tone was dangerous enough. Gregorovich heard the implications and quirked his lips sardonically.

"I suppose it doesn't matter to you." The Russian tapped his watch. "Now hurry up; we've wasted ten minutes. Notre Dame will be crowded within the hour."

"Notre Dame? The cathedral?"

"Is there another one in Paris?"

"Why're we going to Notre Dame?"

"You will see in time. Move faster, Alex, and for the love of Mother Russia, _comb your hair_."

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><p><strong>AN:** Ugh, writing Yassen is so complicated. He's cold and distant, but loves Alex in his own way. He's coolly different, but has his own pains. He's achingly strong, but has his soft moments and weaknesses. That's what makes him such an interesting person, but so _difficult!_

So, typos? Missing words? Missing letters? Words not flowing? CC please! I know that even though I've read this a dozen times already, I've _still_ miss a ton of mistakes.


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